


The Way the Night Comes

by lastinthebox



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Chicago Cubs, Crack, First Kiss, Horror Lite, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-06 23:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastinthebox/pseuds/lastinthebox
Summary: And yeah, he should have just gone to sleep.Because this?Rizzo is not equipped to deal with this.“I am not equipped to deal with this,” Rizzo says.Bryant’s mouth twists up ugly, the things on his back quivering in time with his breath.  Rizzo edges a little closer to the door.





	The Way the Night Comes

**Author's Note:**

> None of this is real, obv. No disrespect intended.

_Please leave a message after the tone._

“Hey, man. You on your way?”

 

::

 

_Please leave a message after the tone._

“So. I mean, I don’t know what kinda night you had, but you should probably, maybe come in? Okay, see you.”

 

::

 

_duuude are u ok_

and

_idk i know its just bball but its kinda our job idk_

 

::

 

 _duuude are u ok_  
Read 12:40 PM

 _idk i know its just bball but its kinda our job idk_  
Read 12:40 PM

 

::

 

Snitches get stitches and Rizzo’s no rat, but it’s been a couple hours and there’s been no reply since Bryant’s read receipt came through. He feels like a narc knocking on Joe’s office door, but dude needs to know. Rizzo’s pushing the phone across his desk when it pings with a new message, because of course it does.

_i can’t come_

“Oh, hell no,” Maddon says. Snatches his keys from a hook behind him, grabs the coat off the back of his chair, points a finger at Rizzo like it’s _his_ damn fault. “No.”

“You want me to come with?” Rizzo asks.

Maddon pins him down with a glare so heated, Rizz can actually feel his balls retreat into his body. It’s a very uncomfortable sensation and Rizzo shifts on his feet. 

“Get your ass to BP,” Maddon snaps and charges out into the hallway.

 

::

 

It’s maybe ten minutes to first pitch when Maddon and Other Important People come up from the tunnel and crowd together around the dugout steps. They’re pouring over some slips of paper and whispering kinda aggressively, so Rizzo just knows.

“Hey, where’s KB?” Montero asks, like it’s just dawned on him homie’s been AWOL since morning workouts.

Maddon must have his gossip radar ratcheted up to eleven this fine Chicago afternoon, because he says around the pen clenched between his teeth, “He can’t come.”

“Bummer,” Heyward says.

Rizzo shoves a handful of gum in his mouth. “Totally.”

 

::

 

They lose, so that sucks.

 

::

 

Bryant’s still forwarding Rizzo’s calls and reading-but-not-replying to Rizzo’s texts, which is just fucking rude. Like, if you’re gonna ghost on your bro, do it right. And Bryant’s still scrubbed from the roster for their Saturday night game, but they win this time, so fuck it.

 

::

 

“Maybe he’s got the clap,” Heyward says during their Sunday morning game.

“He does not have the clap,” Maddon says.

“You never know,” Heyward says, leaning back towards Rizzo. “You never know, man.”

Heyward, who rights his helmet and takes his place on deck, who slugs a two-run homer basically to fucking heaven on his first pitch at bat, who comes back down to the dugout and presses back up against Rizzo like he didn’t just probably save them the game and says, “I’m not, look, I’m not saying it’s the clap, but it could be the clap.”

“It’s not the damn clap!” Maddon the Chisme Slayer barks.

 

::

 

That night, with a little help from his friends (see Anheuser-Busch and Uber), Rizzo decides to stop by Bryant’s place. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time, as all ideas are apt to be when one is six or seven or ten Modelos deep. But when Rizz has his forehead pressed up against the cool wood grain of KB’s door, and Bryant’s not answering, he foggily starts to think that maybe his good idea had not been a Good Idea.

“Fine,” Rizzo says, and slumps down onto his ass right there in the hallway. 

His head is spinning and he’s kinda upset, which is kinda confusing and he doesn’t know what to do about that. What he does know is he’s probably not getting up off this floor without help, so he’s gonna be that ballplayer. He’s gonna be the Seguin of baseball. He’s gonna wake up traded to the Cardinals. He’s gonna die in front of KB’s door, because he’s fallen and he can’t get up.

Rizzo, yeah, Rizzo lives here now.

 

::

 

Things Anthony Rizzo will not remember:

Kris Bryant opening the door, shuffling back as Rizzo’s body spills hard into his front hallway.

Kris Bryant dragging Rizzo up and onto the couch.

Kris Bryant freezing in the kitchen, glass running over under the tap, when Rizzo lifts his face off a fuzzy throw pillow and says, “Definitely not the clap, then.”

Kris Bryant slamming a hand against the light switches, waiting and waiting for Rizzo’s breath to even out in the dark.

 

::

 

The hangover is swift and hits him like a vengeful act of god.

He’s vaguely aware of the one arm he has planted on the carpet, which, _right on_ , drunk him recognized the importance of remaining tethered to the earth. This, of course, leads to the realization he’s no longer slumped over in a public hallway, but instead squeaking up against a soft leather couch. 

He squeezes his eyes tight against the sliver of early morning light falling across his cheek and crunches some numbers. Plugs in the solution and double checks his answer. Judging by the stupid fucking fuzzy pillow his face is drool-glued to, he’s either drunk-Hulked his way into KB’s apartment or his ankles are about to get Misery’d by a disgruntled fan.

“It’s okay, I can afford new ankles,” and ouch, it sounds like he’s been chewing on gravel. He sucks at his teeth. Tastes like it, too.

There’s a polite cough from some other direction he can’t be bothered to surmise. Number crunching time. Polite = Kris Bryant. Not polite = Kathy Bates. Safe. “You can afford what?”

“Ankles, man,” Rizzo grunts, turning his face back into his spit pillow. “Ankles.”

“What?”

“Kris.”

“Anthony.”

“Sshh.”

The indignant squawk is totally worth the second fuzzy pillow he takes to the back. He drifts to something popping off in the kitchen, coffee hopefully, and that one lady on WGN9 telling him it’s gonna be unseasonably cold. And yeah, he can hear the rattle of the thermostat in the corner. He can hear the rustle of Bryant fucking around with the Keurig. There’s a dull clink to his left and a light brush of something against his exposed cheek. There’s a certain warmth spreading in his chest, a warmth that lulls back into a doze, although it is highly possible that’s just the booze coming back up.

By the time he pulls himself up into true consciousness, the coffee is cold and the apartment is dead silent and dark. There’s a sticky note by the cup.

_You can let yourself out._

 

::

 

“So, not the clap,” Heyward says.

“Definitely not the clap,” Rizzo says around a mouthful of seeds.

“Oh, yeah? When did you graduate doctor school?”

“Ha, fuck you. When did you?”

“Boo, burn,” Heyward laughs, draws out the o’s and u’s. 

Rizzo shrugs, catches a stinging throw from a tremendously bored Addi across the field. The tips of his fingers ache a bit, so he launches it back as hard as he can, you know, to reassert his toughness or whatever.

“Well, there’s gotta be something wrong,” Heyward says. 

“I don’t know, man.” Crack, chew, spit. “He seemed fine.”

“Who seemed fine?”

Fuck. Rizzo peers over Heyward’s shoulder for a glance at a stormy-looking, crossed-arms Maddon peering right back. Maybe, like, if he doesn’t move. Maybe, like, managers’ visual acuity is based on movement.

“Who seemed fine?” Maddon repeats.

“Uh.” Don’t snitch, don’t snitch, don’t snitch. “Uh, Kris?”

“Let’s go on a walk, Rizz.”

 

::

 

“So you saw him and he seemed fine.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes.”

“Perfectly fine.”

“Perfectly fine.” Crack, chew, spit. Rizzo resists that overwhelming urge to roll his eyes, because it’s like the fourth iteration of the same conversation, and hey, all adults were teenagers once. He doesn’t, though. Doesn’t need the knowledge he’s on someplace on Maddon’s shitlist in his life right now.

“You saw- _saw_ him and he seemed fine.”

“I saw- _saw_ him and he seemed fine,” Rizzo repeats.

“And no…” Maddon waves his hands somewhere up around his shoulders. “No nothing?”

Crack, chew, spit. “What?”

Maddon eyes him in a way that makes Rizzo feel so incredibly small. He stands there awkwardly as Maddon turns on his heel without another word. Watches as the guy pulls that set of keys out his pocket and whistles at one the coaches to bring it in.

 

::

 

“What kinda green beret shit, man,” Heyward says, not looking up from his phone when Rizzo jogs back over. “Old man creepin’.”

Rizz slips his mitt on just in time to catch a sailing throw right to Heyward’s dome. Crack, chew, spit. “Saved your life.”

“Whatever,” Heyward replies.

“I think,” Rizzo starts, then sighs, because this totally sucks. “Bro, I think he’s pulling a Harvey.”

“Gross,” says Heyward. “But yeah.”

 

::

 

Maddon rolls up late, pale-faced and sweaty. 

He pulls Rizzo aside after the game and tells him very plainly to get his fucking eyes checked stat.

 

::

 

_dude i am ok but i’m not fine. does that make sense to you_

Rizzo blinks at his phone, way too bright in the dark of his bedroom. He opens the text, then locks the phone and tosses it to the other side of the bed. The chick he’d picked up flips it back to him and glares as she pulls her dress into place.

 

::

 

 _dude i am ok but i’m not fine. does that make sense to you_  
Read 1:23 AM

 

::

 

They go on the road for a couple series. Bryant doesn’t go with him. Them. He doesn’t go with them, yeah.

It just doesn’t feel right, blasting it out of [insert park/field here] and not having KB waiting for him at home.

Wait. 

Home _plate_.

God, Rizzo thinks as he tips back a beer at [insert bar/club here], he’s totally fucked.

 

::

 

They fly back into the city late. It’s muggy as hell, hot as fuck, and Rizzo just wants to take himself and his wild-pitch hip-bruises straight to bed for about eighteen hours. But that’s not the plan, apparently, because the moment he remembers to take his phone of airplane mode, that damn text comes through.

_come over_

He contemplates this. Contemplates it really, really hard for about five minutes, before he crawls on top of his bed, stretches his arms up and replies.

_no, you come over her_

_*here_

_ha_

Because it’s funny, okay.

_i can’t leave my apartment_

Rizzo starts a bit at that. That’s, that sounds serious.

_r u ok??_

He stares down the phone for a couple minutes, waiting for those little ellipses. It’s a hostage situation, it’s domestic cyber-terrorists, it’s a pack of wild dogs, aliens, Yeti, it’s a trap. Then the dots pop up.

_i’m ok but i can’t leave_

_you r gonna have to come on me_

_*to_

_dam_

_*damn_

_lol_

“Oh, Jesus,” Rizzo says, cradling his phone to his chest. He’s changing into sweats and out the door before he can be a little rational about it, before he can be a little petty about it and send a read receipt and just crash out.

 

::

 

And yeah, he should have just gone to sleep.

Because this?

He is so not equipped to deal with this.

“I am so not equipped to deal with this,” Rizzo says.

KB’s mouth twists up ugly. The things on his back are quivering in time with his breath. He’s about to go off. Rizzo edges a little closer to the door.

“You’re not equipped,” Bryant says, tone flat in a way that betrays the danger in his eyes. “ _You’re_ not equipped? What makes you think _I’m_ equipped?”

“I-”

“Maddon was right, I shouldn’t have said anything to you.”

And Rizzo’s totally freaking right now, but excuse me, they’re supposed to be best bros and he’s feeling a little scandalized by Bryant’s bad attitude and lack of trust. So he says so. Which was apparently the Wrong Thing to Say. So was following that gem up with asking to touch them. Also, in retrospect, the joke he’d made right after might have been in poor taste. Three strikes and out.

“I’m making a scene out here, Kris Bryant,” he says through the door.

“Go home, Rizz!”

“Kris Bryant, open the door!”

Silence, then he hears the locks unclick. He muscles his way through when the door cracks open and very pointedly locks it behind him. KB’s standing in the middle of his living room by the time Rizzo turns back. Damn, guy moves fast. It’s then that Rizzo really takes notice just how messed up this all is.

Because there Bryant stands, with a three-week-old beard, the saddest pair of sweats ever worn, no shirt because, yeah, that probably wouldn’t work very well. The coffee table is on top of the couch and there’s a large pallet of sheets and blankets and pillows on the floor.

“I can’t really fit through doors, unless I crawl,” Bryant says and shrugs, a small little movement that sets the ceiling fan spinning. Adds, “Can’t really fit anywhere, actually.”

Rizzo nods and must consciously remember to close his mouth. 

So yeah, about the wings.

 

::

 

And they are wings, he guesses. They’re sleek and black and huge and absorb the light in an odd, muted kind of way. They also kinda mimic Bryant’s movements. They’re tightly folded up until Bryant unfolds his arms, dropping them to his sides. The things, the wings, seem to droop along with them. It’s a little creepy, a little piece of creepy sliced out of the big creepy pie. Rizzo wonders if Bryant has bodily control over them or if it’s just automatic. Rizzo wonders if asking is a bad idea.

“Yes,” Bryant says.

Rizzo starts a bit from his perch, ha, up on the kitchen counter. Did he think that out loud?

“Yes,” Bryant repeats.

“I’m tired,” Rizzo says. 

“It’s okay.” 

KB scratches an itch on his side. Then he clasps his hands together and the other things stretch out. They fill the space, knock against the walls, feathers spread like obsidian daggers, and all the light and energy and oxygen seems to seep out of the room. Some primal response zips through Rizzo’s body, the one that tell you when run or stand your ground and fight, the danger klaxon in everyone’s brain. 

And he tries to look away, he really does. But it just won’t let him. What won’t let him? His eyes are fixed, to the hard plane of Bryant’s clenched jaw, the scraggly hair covering his neck. To the place his neck meets muscled shoulder. That klaxon in his skull starts blaring. He tries to draw a breath, but there’s no oxygen to be had. 

And this is it. This is curtains. His vision goes grey as sparks explode at the edges. There’s so much left to say, he’s got so much left to say, and now he’s just gonna die on Kris Bryant’s kitchen counter. Not fucking fair, he thinks, right before he cracks his face on the coffeemaker.

 

::

 

Things Anthony Rizzo will never know:

Kris Bryant’s feet leaving the ground as the light starts to seep from Rizzo’s body.

Kris Bryant’s heart pounding in his throat as he slams back down to earth.

Kris Bryant’s hands on Rizzo’s cheeks as he breathes that stolen life and then some back into place.

Kris Bryant’s voice as he places that call.

(Kris Bryant’s irritation that Rizzo had to die on his Keurig. Like, he couldn’t have fallen the other way? It had been such a nice Keurig.)

 

::

 

“It’s okay, son. It happened to me, too.”

Rizzo grasps at the hand pressed into his shoulder, blinks groggily. “Dad?”

Maddon rears back a little on his heels, trying to pull his hand out from under Rizzo’s, but like, that hand strength, though. Rizzo’s made some gains the past couple months, so it ain’t gonna happen. He starts to giggle, then really starts to laugh. 

“Up, c’mon, let’s get you up,” Maddon says.

Maddon all but hauls him to his feet, which totally is not necessary, one, and two, Rizzo feels like he’s slept an age. Nothing hurts. Everything is light. It’s all just really, really fucking light. He lets himself be deposited into a recliner, stares up at the cracked ceiling as a soft conversation takes place somewhere behind him.

“I can’t take you with me now, but I’ll be back for you in a few hours,” Maddon says, squeezes his shoulder quickly, then dips just as fast.

He takes a bit of the warmth with him when he leaves. It makes things a little clearer, clear enough for him to recognize the eerie sensation that’s been creeping up his spine. Bryant’s standing just beyond his line of sight, still and quiet as the grave.

“Tell me everything,” Rizzo says.

“I woke up like this,” Bryant answers, still creeping just out of view.

“Okay, Beyoncé. Feel free to elaborate.”

There’s a huge intake of breath, an exhale that ruffles through the short hairs on the back of Rizzo’s neck. He wants to turn around, give Bryant’s dumbass a look, wants to see his stupid fucking face, really. But he knows that he can’t yet. He doesn’t know why, but he just knows he can’t.

“I went to bed the night before I texted that first time. I woke up the next morning to these things. That’s all. That’s really, really it.”

“So you’re cursed.”

“What! No! I’m not cursed.”

“You’re cursed.”

“Stop saying that. I’m not fucking cursed.”

Rizzo’s lips twist a bit. “You cursed.”

“Shut up.”

“All I’m saying is if it’s gonna be another 108, the people of this great city deserve to know whose grave to desecrate. No jinx.”

“No jinx.”

Another silent moment stretches out and out. It’s not completely uncomfortable, but something deep inside of Rizzo shifts with a twinge. That light he felt only a few moments ago, that high he experienced, is starting to ebb away. Something else is pressing in to that space, something some part of him is wary to identify. It’s pressing in harder and harder, in such a way Rizz can feel a cool sweat building at his hairline, on his top lip, and the palms of his hands.

“You’re probably going to start feeling like shit,” Bryant says, the volume of his voice fading in and out, like he’s moving close and far, close and far.

“Yeah,” Rizzo whispers.

“Don’t fight it, Rizz. It’ll only make it worse. And you won’t be tired, but you need to sleep. Can you make it to my room? You should take my room.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t remember how he made it down the hall, but he remembers crawling into soft, white sheets. He knows he’s never been here before, in KB’s room or in his bed, but the scent in the sheets is as familiar as anything. Fresh-cut grass, beer in a cold glass, a new football right out the box. A rustle comes from the living room, soft snaps and pops like a spine being stretched. Rizz grits his teeth and curls the pillow around his ears.

There’s a crack in this ceiling, too. 

 

::

 

Maddon comes for him just like he’d said he would.

Kris must be in the kitchen, around the corner, and the idea of it makes Rizzo’s skin crawl.

He’s never been so exhausted in his life.

 

::

 

“So was it a Harvey or nah?” Heyward asks.

“Nah,” Rizzo responds, tossing the ball back in a slow, underhand throw.

And that’s that.

 

::

 

It’s pretty clear to him now, a few days removed, that Something Big Went Down.

There’s the wing thing, and the supernatural vacuum of light thing, but there’s a piece missing he can’t seem to grasp.

It’s frustrating and spooky and Rizzo likes to know things. He likes to know all the things, even the stupid things, who doesn’t. And that Celebrity Jeopardy call is coming any day now, he’s got faith. So yeah, the lost time thing is not gonna work.

He opens the texting function before he hits the gym.

_so yeah the lost time thing is not gonna work_

After, when his soul’s been crushed by the rower and his ego blown on the flat bench, he sees the freaking novel he’s been sent.

_so i think i accidentally killed u to fly. i fixed that tho OBVIOUSLY bc i can give most of it back. i think i almost did it to maddon too but i fixed that too. i didn’t know it was me when that happened. i can control the things to move them but not the other thing. the soul eating thing? idk what to call it. it’s worse when u look n i think u tried not to but sometimes they make u. sometimes they make me look, too. i’m sorry i asked u to come over bc i shouldn’t have but i missed u, i guess? i didn’t think that was going to happen. anyway i’m gonna fix that. the things, not missing u. i always miss u. sorry that’s weird._

_i miss u too_ , is all Rizzo can manage. That’s the only part that doesn’t scare him. It’s the only part that makes any sense.

 

::

 

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night, because _sometimes they make me look, too._

 

::

 

“What do you mean, you’re gonna fix that?”

“Aren’t you in the middle of a game?”

“Oh, my god, yes, but answer the question.”

“Shouldn’t you be waiting to go on deck?”

“Kris, shut up. How are you gonna fix it?”

“Call me after you’re done.”

“No. Bro. Dude. Spill.”

“What if I told you I wanted to see you, even though it might be a bad idea?”

“What, like FaceTime or for real?”

“For real.”

“Is that how you’re gonna fix it?”

“I just want to see you before I do.”

 

::

 

The light in the foyer is out when Rizzo get home. 

He fumbles through the doorway with all his bags, bumps his hip against the stupid, useless table, then just gives up all drops all the shit he’s holding right where he stands. He’s reaching for the light switches when his living room talks.

“Rizz, don’t move.”

Rizzo’s phone goes clattering to the floor. That feeling you get right before you trip? The dunked in ice water then pushed off the top step feeling? Yeah, he hates that. He puts a hand to his throat, muscles still seizing under his fingers. “What the fuck, dude!”

“Sorry.”

“This,” Rizzo starts slowly, working around the adrenaline still pulsing through him in waves. “This is not what I thought you meant when you said you wanted to see me, man.”

“Sorry for that, too.”

“Shut up, Kris. Where are you?”

“Eh,” a pause, “Standing by your TV.”

Ah. If Rizzo takes two more steps forward, he’ll have clear view of the living room. He’ll see his sectional in front of him and to the left, he’ll see his coffee table trunk thing in the center, and he’ll see the impractically massive television and console to the right. If Rizzo takes two more steps forward, he’ll see everything.

And Rizzo, he like, really fucking misses the dude. He misses taking his assists from third. He misses the fist bump or the handshake or, if he’s lucky, the tight hug on the dugout steps after one of them just kills it out there. Rizzo misses the press of their knees on the bus, and the lame jokes on the bench, and the old memes in his texts. He misses the tingling burn he gets when he feels Bryant’s stare.

See, if Rizzo takes two more steps forward, he’ll be in Kris Bryant’s direct line of sight. And Rizzo’s not sure he won’t be able to look away.

“Close your eyes,” Bryant says.

“It’s fucking dark,” Rizz says, but shuts his eyes anyway. Scrunches them shut, really. Claps a hand over them and anchors himself with the other by grasping the bureau.

“Are they closed?”

“Dude. Yes.”

There’s a rustle, a displacement of the air immediately around him, the invasion and occupation of light and everything and Rizzo draws in a quick, sharp breath. There’s something clicking in his brain, the ignition turning over and over, but never quite catching. His mind doesn’t remember this part, but his body does. His feet shift to shoulder width, right heel up against the door. The hand clenched to the table edge balls into a fist at his side. 

“It’s okay,” KB says, so close Rizzo feels his heat. “I’m going to touch you, if that’s okay.”

Is that okay? Is he still breathing? Rizzo pulls in another breath, deeper this time, slower. “It’s okay.”

The air shifts again when he feels the touch, feather light against the hand he has clasped over his eyes. Bryant’s hand presses in a little harder, until his fingers slip between Rizzo’s, until his eyelashes brush foreign skin. Some little thing catches in Rizzo’s throat and he swallows it down, painfully almost. Bryant exhales loud and cool against his cheek. It’s exhilarating, that closeness, and it sets something burning behind Rizzo’s eyes.

“Are you looking at me?” Rizzo asks. He knows the answer, because he knows that burn, but he wants to hear it. 

There’s a beat of silence, that same kind of pause that stretches just past comfortable, not quite bearable. That beat of silence, and then, “I’m always looking at you.”

Rizzo laughs, because, well. Gross.

“It totally sounded better in my head,” Bryant explains, grin in his voice.

“Yeah, sure,” Rizzo huffs.

KB makes a noise not quite a word and falls silent. Rizzo starts, only a fraction, when the tips of Bryant’s fingers touch the back of his neck, when blunt nails rake through the short hairs at his nape, when Bryant’s palm cradles the base of his skull. The hand over the top of his starts to loosen. “Keep them closed,” Kris warns, then his hand falls away.

“Yeah.” Rizzo squeezes his eyes shut so hard, there’s faint bursts of white popping at the corners. He closes his fingers and presses his hand more firmly to his face, breathes through his mouth because his palm’s squishing his nose. 

Another exhale, not as cool or steady. It’s hot and sticky almost against Rizzo’s cheek. Something clicking. He listens hard, can hear the fan rattling in the kitchen, muted city traffic from the cracked patio door, a flutter of muscle and feather and bone. Bryant’s or his pulse beating in their throats. Rizzo presses again and again.

A hand on his hip, firm and searing. Fingers at the hem of his sweatshirt, then under, working into the muscle and fine hairs at the base of his spine. A palm up his back, exposed skin chilled and pebbling to the cool air. 

Rizzo takes a breath, dimly proud it’s even, betraying the painful, quick beat of his heart. Takes the hand balled at his side and stretches his fingers out, cracks them twice and raises it up until his fingers meet skin. Smooth jaw, freshly shaven, lotion soft, all at once alien and familiar. He thumbs at the fragile skin at the top of Bryant’s cheek, over and over, until he can feel in the muscle his eyes are closed.

Even.

Bryant steps forward and that’s it, they’re in the same space. His warmth bleeds through Rizzo’s shirt, a hip dug into his own, a nudge to the foot and theirs knees press tight, flesh and bone and blood and, “You sure?” Bryant says, just above a whisper.

“Dude, don’t be dumb right now,” Rizzo pleads, moves that hand to the back of Bryant’s neck, splaying his fingers through clean, silky hair.

The hand at Rizzo’s neck moves, strong, long fingers encircling his wrist. “Don’t open your eyes.” 

And his hand’s being pulled away and Bryant’s nose brushes up against his cheek. The lips that find his own are chapped and dry and Rizzo’s never felt anything like it, never felt anything so stupidly perfect. Like, not ever. 

Rizzo moves slow and Bryant follows, skin catching slightly at the edges where they meet. It’s uncomfortable, kinda, but so fucking thrilling. Rizzo pulls back slightly, to wet his lips, to draw a breath, to something clicking, to the firmness of the body pressed up to his own. 

There’s a slickness now, a slip slide to their lips, meeting and moving for only a breath and meeting again. Bryant’s hold on him hurts, almost, bruising and tight. So do the teeth worried at his lower lip, blood raised to the surface then soothed by heat, Bryant’s tongue on his skin. Bryant’s tongue on his.

Rizzo needs. He needs. He kneads at the taut muscle he’s found at the base of Bryant’s spine, wraps around his slim waist, and pulls until Rizzo’s back hits the door. There’s a flurry of noise, cracks and pops, and Kris curses something foul into Rizzo’s mouth, lip caught between Rizzo’s teeth. A voice, a memory, a snapshot of _I can’t fit anywhere_.

Bryant shudders and breaks away, tucking his face into Rizzo’s neck. His chest is heaving in cadence with Rizzo’s pulse. Rizzo smooths circles into Bryant’s side, hands low and safe and away from the problem. Bryant’s arms tighten up even more. It’s getting hard to breathe. 

It’s something clicking.

It’s trying to open his eyes.

It’s Bryant covering the upper half of his face with fire-hot hands, the ghost of a kiss to the shell of his ear, and it’s, “I need to go.”

Rizzo, who stumbles back through the suddenly empty space and grasps at thin air, who breathes in so deep for the first time in what feels like forever and opens his eyes to see black daggers and shine slip out onto the patio and fade into the night.

 

::

 

No outs and Kris is on third. 3-0 and homie on the mound is 80 plus in, getting tired and it’s starting to show. 

Rizzo rolls his shoulders, scratches that itch, and makes it soar.

 

:: :: ::

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is self-indulgent utter garbage. But I think it's said to write what you want to read? I wanted to read fluffy, harmless wing!fic, which is totally how this started. Like, it was titled "Wind Beneath My Something" and everything. It was also supposed to come in around 2000 words. That did not work out, either. Oh, and my original ending was way fucking dark, so at least I changed that, though it's now a lot more abrupt.
> 
> And sorry for the gratuitous spacing. I guess I just find it aesthetically pleasing. 
> 
> I don't have a beta yet, so let me know if something's whacked.


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